


Break Even

by swapcats



Series: shitty girlfriend AU [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first few weeks, most of the class lingers behind, sucking sharp breaths between their teeth every time you fling Mikasa over your shoulder, wincing in sympathy whenever her fist connects with your ribs. Eventually, <em>most</em> becomes <em>some</em>, until you're the only two left there. You break even between wins and losses, and sometimes you'll just circle the room, staring at each other; it's no fun for spectators when they can't work out who's supposed to be the prey.</p><p>*</p><p>(Or: how to circumvent the discussion of feelings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Even

     For the first few weeks, most of the class lingers behind, sucking sharp breaths between their teeth every time you fling Mikasa over your shoulder, wincing in sympathy whenever her fist connects with your ribs. Eventually, _most_ becomes _some_ , until you're the only two left there. You break even between wins and losses, and sometimes you'll just circle the room, staring at each other; it's no fun for spectators when they can't work out who's supposed to be the prey.

 

     Mikasa shows up most Wednesday evenings. It'd be hard to explain to someone how you put your all into these sparring sessions while remaining relaxed, but that's how it works—for the most part. Your head's not in it this evening. You couldn't do badly if you tried, but you're finding that your muscles are coiled too tightly, and there's a fog covering the thoughts you're doing your best not to focus on; you could've been at it for a minute or an hour and you wouldn't know any different.

 

     After the first black eye Mikasa wore like a medal to work, the two of you decided that it was best to aim beneath the neck, and your eyes keep flitting from one bruise to the next. Mikasa steps forward and you go back, back, bouncing on the balls of your feet to keep up the momentum, not ready to let her strike, not yet. It's mid-winter, so of course it's dark, but the hall seems distractingly dim; more so than the bruises across your ribs and the heaviness of your breathing. You look around at the empty hall with its flickering lights and the door that rattles with the wind, and it almost doesn't matter that this isn't Europe, that there aren't crowds gathered to watch you, because Mikasa's the only one who—

 

     The only one who can get you on the floor with one of your own moves. Your back takes the brunt of the impact and a frustrated growl tears itself free of your throat, because that was _stupid_. You should've seen that coming a mile away.

 

     You dig your elbow into the scratched floorboards, meaning to get to your feet, and Mikasa says, “Had enough?” She isn't mocking you. You wish she was, because that single note of concern hits you harder than anything she's thrown your way all night.

 

     “No,” you grunt, springing back to your feet, guard up.

 

     Mikasa looks as hesitant as she ever does, and then goes back to circling you. Trying to read your mind by reading your body. You don't give her time to figure anything out; you charge towards her, aiming for the thigh that has to be sore from the last time you struck it, and wind up with one of her arms twisted behind her back. She swings out an elbow but you've already stepped to the side, and somewhere in the process of trying to make her kneel, you end up flung towards the wall. The side of your shin catches against one of the benches that run the width of the hall, sending a spark of pain through your knee. Forcing yourself to let your jaw unclench, you exhale heavily, slumping down onto the bench.

 

     “I'm done,” you say, and Mikasa drops her guard immediately. She knows you wouldn't resort to fighting dirty for a win.

 

     In the car, she doesn't have much to say. She sits in the passenger seat, leant against the door, knees tucked up to her chest while she texts away, headphones in. You glance at her when the lights turn red, but Mikasa's in her own world. You already have a solid idea of how it's going to go from here: you pretend that you're only dropping her off home, and then Mikasa gestures towards the front door with the tilt of her head, and with no more prompting, you'll be following her inside. Well, not tonight. You're determined to let her out and head straight back to your place—which goes as well as it ever does.

 

     “Are you hungry?” you ask, staring out at drizzle caught under street lights. Mikasa pulls one of her headphones out and raises her eyebrows, waiting for you to repeat yourself. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

 

     The two of you are still clad in training gear and there's dried sweat on your brows – which is an odd sensation, at the end of December – so takeaway it is. You leave her texting in the car, well aware that it's no business of yours who she's talking to, and return triumphant with a few cartons of Chinese from the buffet takeaway. She puts her hand atop the boxes when you place them in her lap, but doesn't look up.

 

     “Is something wrong?” you ask when the radio keeps crackling and the sheer volume of traffic demands a distraction.

 

     “Eren,” she murmurs, “He's having one of his days.”

 

     Generally, that means that Eren's found _something_ to be painfully angry and frustratingly excited about all at once, and dealing with it is best left to Mikasa and Armin. Dealing with Eren can be a full-time job in and of itself, but you suppose that's what Mikasa gets for being his sister—or however _that_ all works. You never really asked, though Armin's brought it up plenty of times in the past.

 

     Mikasa doesn't put her phone down until you've mauled your way through half the takeaway. Her concentration is unshakable, and she's been eating all the while without realising it. You see her look down at her plate and blink at the blank spot she's worked into it, and can't help bit give a little roll of your eyes. You look away, hoping she doesn't see and mistake it for amusement or something worse.

 

     Mikasa never says _finally_ or sighs in relief once she's done tending to Eren. You know better than to suggest it must be an annoyance, and Mikasa goes about digging into the rest of her meal as though it isn't already cold. You're hardly doing much better yourself; the heating's off, as it always is, and you didn't want to pull on your hoodie before taking a shower.

 

     “Are you alright?” Mikasa asks, and she says it as though she _knows_ something.

 

     She tears a spring-roll in two between her teeth and you shrug her off, same as ever.

 

     “It's cold,” you say.

 

     “Mm,” she says, crossing the kitchen to give her dinner a quick blast in the microwave. It hums to life, and she says, “That's not what I meant. I heard—”

 

     “I'm _fine_ ,” you insist, and then prove it by sitting with your shoulders hunched and stabbing at what remains on your plate. The microwave beeps before Mikasa can open her mouth again, but you tense, expecting words regardless, only to be met with the sound of her setting her plate down on the counter.

 

     You eat all you're going to and sit there, chin rested against your open palm. Mikasa eats the rest of her dinner quickly and quietly, only troubling you when she leans forward to take your plate and place it in the sink. The kitchen becomes occupied by the sound of cartons being crushed, water running, plates clattering together; everything but conversation. You're giving yourself a headache thinking about leaving, but that would require saying _something_ , and if Eren's having one of those days, then you're having one of those weeks.

 

     Mikasa wouldn't mind if you got up and left, but you'd hate to become predictable. You stay there until you know she's right behind you, and it's _oppressive_ , as though you expected to sit there in her kitchen and go unnoticed. She puts her chin atop your head and wraps her arms around your shoulders, leaning against your back; you want to push her off, but Mikasa just hums, “Come on.” She kisses behind your ear and you find yourself following her to the bathroom, wishing you'd put your hoodie on after all. If nothing else, you'd be able to pull the hood up and disappear into it.

 

     Mikasa closes the bathroom door behind you and gets the shower running, water hot enough to start steaming up the mirrors and shower doors almost immediately. She takes off her clothes, shirt and sports bra, leggings then underwear, and you see a map spread out across her body, bruises your kicks have left and marks that weren't born of the dojo. When she realises you're just standing there uselessly, Mikasa takes hold of the hem of your shirt and starts tugging it up.

 

     You don't lift your arms.

 

     “Mikasa,” you say. Warning her, maybe.

 

     “Annie,” she replies, looking down at you, but you don't have the energy to argue with her. Your shirt comes off, and then you let her have the honour of peeling away the rest of your clothing, too.

 

     You get in the shower first, at her urging, one hand on the small of your back. Her fingertips rest a fraction of an inch beneath a bruise, but you don't think it was from her, not directly. From the shape of it and the way it's spread, it was born from taking the brunt of an impact. Mikasa steps in after you, and you tug on her wrist, pulling her towards you as you slide the doors shut. The beat of water rushing down on top of you does something to mute the more unruly of your thoughts, and your hands find Mikasa's hips because, really, there's no room for them elsewhere.

 

     The water plasters her hair across her forehead and cheeks, makes her face a little redder, and you lean towards her, lips ghosting across the corner of her mouth. The water that rushes down leaves your lips salty for a moment, until Mikasa brings her hands to her face and rinses it off, looking at you between her fingers.

 

     She eases you against the wall, hands sliding across your sides, kissing you gently. You push yourself up on tiptoes to get closer, fingertips carefully creeping across her ribs, side-stepping all her bruises as she pays you the same courtesy. You're sighing into her mouth after a moment, feeling the ache of more than training ease out of your system. Mikasa only breaks away to reach for the shampoo, and you bury your nose in her neck, letting her work her fingertips against your scalp.

 

     When you finally look at her, having spent long minutes with your eyes closed, idly rinsing out your hair, she's a little hard to see; there's more steam than anything else around you and you have to blink the water out of your eyes, but there are drops caught in Mikasa's eyelashes and she looks more patient and understanding than she ever has before. Or maybe you've just mistaken patience for indifference, in the past.

 

     “If something's wrong...” she tries again, flicking the water off.

 

     The silence is sudden and absolute, and you break it by murmuring, “Yeah.”

 

     “But you don't want to talk about it?” Mikasa asks, stepping out and reaching for a towel.

 

     You shake your head. No, no you do not. Mercifully, Mikasa leaves it at that. You shake your hair out, sending drops of water flying against the mirror and walls, and Mikasa drops a towel down on your head. You nudge her with your shoulder when she goes to grab her toothbrush, then rub your hair as dry as you're going to get it without exhausting your arms before worrying about anything else. There's a toothbrush there for you, too. You didn't leave it there, but Mikasa had a spare and you didn't have time to rush home before work—and there it is, propped up on her sink.

 

     You snatch it up as though she hasn't noticed it lying there every morning and night, as though she hasn't purposely left it out.

 

     Your hair's still damp when you fall into Mikasa's bed, but you're not awake enough for it to trouble you. You're not awake enough to mind the way Mikasa nestles up behind you, either, and you run your fingers across her knuckles when an arm drapes loosely across your waist. It's easier to deal with having her so close in the dark, when you can close your eyes and trick yourself into believing that you've already drifted off.

 

     But then Mikasa mutters, “I think you broke a rib,” and you huff out a laugh into the pillow.

 

*

 

     “Were you fired?” Mikasa guesses.

 

     There's a basis for it, you suppose; usually, you're out of the house by seven, but it's half-past and you're sat on the counter, kicking your feet as you trundle through a bowl of cereal. Still, Mikasa should know better than to assume that losing your shitty office job would be enough to weigh on your mind. You're not certain that it's _possible_ to lose your shitty office job; you do three hours of work within an eight-hour period and you're still one of the most productive employees there.

 

     You shake your head. “I'm going in late,” you say. “... got an appointment.”

 

     Mikasa stops scraping butter across toast that's a little too burnt for your liking, narrowing her eyes as she tries to glare the truth out of you. You make the sort of face that best goes with a shrug and she crunches a slice of toast between her teeth, as though that's intimidating on any planet.

 

     “You're not sick,” Mikasa states. She doesn't make a question of it; you've only been slipping inside your own head and your mood's suffered the worst bruising. A note of concern is dredged up with her words, and all at once it's entirely unlike Mikasa but so very _her_ that you put a hand on her shoulder when she steps closer, thumb brushing against the side of her neck. She was intending to get a glass from the cupboard next to your head, but she pauses, tilting her head towards your touch. She's about to kiss your hand, maybe, when the doorbell sounds.

 

     Mikasa doesn't jump. She doesn't tear away from you. She just moves towards the door, eyes on you for a single step, before she disappears to answer it.

 

     Eren comes bundling in. You catch a glimpse of him in the corridor, see him kiss Mikasa's cheek in greeting and place a tin of _something_ between her hands.

 

     “Those are from mum,” he explains, pulling his gloves off as he steps into the kitchen. “—Annie! You're here early.”

 

     “Hi, Eren,” you say, giving your jaw a reprieve from crushing down cereal.

 

     You catch Mikasa's eye over Eren's shoulder, and the two of you do an excellent job of not breaking out into smiles. It is, thankfully, winter, which dictates that you spend your mornings at Mikasa's wearing more than just your underwear.

 

     “I can't stay for long,” Eren says, helping himself to a glass of juice. He pokes his head into the fridge to see if there's anything else worth stealing, and then comes up for air, continuing with what he was saying. “I just wanted to make sure you're coming to mum and dad's on Tuesday. You know, for New Year's?”

 

     “I'll be there,” Mikasa reassures him for what you highly doubt is the first time.

 

     She digs an apple out of the fruit bowl and throws it Eren's way, and once he's bitten into it, he turns to you and says, “You should come too, Annie. It's not just family—Armin's going to be there, as well as some of the neighbours.”

 

     You're not given the chance to lament over already having plans that absolutely don't exist. Eren makes good on his claim of not being able to stay for long, tugging Mikasa's scarf into place as he hurries out of the front door. When it's just the two of you again, you expect Mikasa to say something like _you don't really have to come_ or _Eren invites everyone; don't worry about it_. Instead, she goes back to her toast as though nothing was said, and peeks into the mystery tin. It's full of cookies, you discover as she holds it out to you; her mother's quite talented, you discover two bites in.

 

     “I've got to go,” she says, picking up her coat and her keys and her bag, stopping in front of the mirror for a split-second to brush her hair into place. “Make sure the door's closed when you leave.”

 

     “Sure,” you say from the sink. You could offer her a lift to work, but you're currently very busy washing your bowl, and Mikasa's gone before she has a chance to hear your reply. Just like that, she leaves you alone in her house. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't impose any restrictions on you; she doesn't think anything of it at all. You think of all the snooping you could do, and decide that you really don't care to. Mikasa's Mikasa, and you don't need to search through a bunch of meaningless clutter to know that. You especially don't care to dig through her things when you could be stealing cookies instead.

 

*

 

     New Year's Eve rolls around, and as it happens, you don't have any plans. The office is closed the next day, along with everywhere else within a billion mile radius, so there's little compelling you to get an early night. You send Mikasa a text around midday, saying _Do you want a lift tonight?_ and she tells you to _Come over at seven._

 

     You pick up what passes for a fancy bottle of wine without being offensively expensive, figuring that you should thank Mikasa's mother for all the cookies you inhaled, and turn up twenty minutes before she told you to. Mikasa's still getting ready, but she looks— _nice_ , you guess. You blink at her, because it's a strange thing to acknowledge when the first ninety percent of your relationship with her occurred exactly because of the way she looked.

 

     Her parent's house is fifty miles out, and you have to contend with the expected New Year's Eve traffic. You spend much of the crawl engaged in a silent battle of wills, constantly flicking back and forth between radio stations, one after another. When it gets to the point where you're listening to no more than three seconds of a song before someone flips to another station, Mikasa grabs your hand and keeps it pinned to the side of her seat, reclaiming it every time you change gear.

 

     It's nine by the time you get there, and plenty of people have already turned up, diffusing any potential awkwardness. Mikasa's mother thanks you warmly for the wine, and Eren arrives at exactly the right moment to make introductions. Mikasa's already slipped away, leaving you stranded, but the evening doesn't turn out as abysmally as it could. There's plenty of food to busy yourself with, music playing that excuses any prolonged silences, as well as a generous variety of alcohol to help pass the time. Much of the evening is spent in Armin's company, and you've never been exactly sure how he manages to talk and talk so much without irritating you. It's nice to get a chance to catch up with him in earnest, and it saves you from being introduced to people you'll have forgotten by the time tomorrow morning rolls around.

 

     You catch Mikasa's eye across the room, now and again. You've had enough to drink to make smiling come easily, but it's not until the party moves outside that you actually draw close to her. It's five to midnight and the sky's set to explode with fireworks at any moment. Everyone huddles around the patio heaters that are barely grazing against the cold, and you pull your hood up, hands hidden in your front pocket. Mikasa's shivering next to you, shoulder bumping against yours, and you briefly consider putting an arm around her. You briefly consider putting an arm around her, and it's not that you care what anyone around you thinks, it's just that—well, you're cold too, and you don't see her making a move to do anything about that.

 

     Someone a few streets over sets off a firework a few minutes too early, getting your hopes up. You want the year to hurry up and end so that you can get back inside where it's warm, where there's food and drink; you didn't come all this way just to freeze. When the fireworks finally go off in full-force, all the wheezes and pops staining the night sky are almost drowned out by your chattering teeth. You're bouncing on the balls of your feet by that point, wondering if it'd be rude to rush back inside before the neighbours' kids sparklers have burnt themselves out, when Mikasa suddenly tugs on the the edge of your hood.

 

     She keeps the fabric held between a finger and thumb and leans in, nose bumping against yours. Her cold breath brushes against your lips, drawing out a smile, and you keep your hands bundled in your pocket as you kiss her, fireworks crackling overhead in some sort of tired cliché that you're determined not to let ruin things.

 

*

 

     There's something very wrong with Mikasa.

 

     You've endured her watching golf – _golf!_ – on three separate occasions, and then she goes ahead and claims to have no interest whatsoever in rugby. You almost think she's messing with you, because why _wouldn't_ Mikasa be interested in watching people brutally slam into each other, but as soon as the game starts, she finds all the ways she can to distract herself. You don't know why she doesn't just go home.

 

     Ten minutes in and she finally stops fidgeting. She winds up with her head rested against your lap, book held up over her face. From time to time, she'll turn her head to the side and brush her nose against your stomach, press her lips to your skin if your shirt's slipped up, but she never pushes it. She has to shuffle back into place every now and again, shoulders digging against your hip and thigh, and so you press her book down against her face whenever she breaks your concentration. Because if your eyes aren't fixed on the screen at all times, obviously there's no way your team's going to play to the best of their ability.

 

     “Remember when we used to fuck?” you ask idly, when nobody's made anything resembling progress in close to five minutes.

 

     Mikasa doesn't grace you with a reply until she's finished up the paragraph she was reading. You've stolen one or two glances down, but it's in Japanese and you wouldn't stand a chance, even if the pages weren't turned away from you.

 

     “We had sex three times this morning,” Mikasa points out.

 

     You hum, supposing that's true. You lapse back into silence, half-heartedly searching for a better way of phrasing what you're trying to get across.

 

     “... four times,” Mikasa murmurs after a moment, and you snort out a laugh before you can help yourself. _Oh_. Of course.

 

     Absent-mindedly, your hand drops to the top of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and you say, “Remember when we used to _just_ fuck?”

 

     Thoroughly interrupted by that point, Mikasa drops her open book onto her stomach and eases herself up into a sitting position, elbows against the arm of the sofa. She's still draped across your lap, but she's just about on the same level now, silently threatening to lean to the side and block your view. “Do you want me to leave?” she says, and she says it like she's confused; like she was certain it was alright for her to be there, but now she's caught up doubting herself.

 

     You poke her forehead.

 

     “It's fine,” you tell her. “I like doing nothing.”

 

     And just to make certain it really _is_ fine, Mikasa leans in to kiss you. She picks the moment the crowd starts cheering, but you manage to keep your eyes off the television for a few seconds. She kisses you a little harder than you were expecting, but there's no real force behind it. Mikasa reclaims her book from her lap and settles back down against yours, content to carry on reading while you roll your eyes at your team's effort.

 

     The rugby's almost finished when your phone starts ringing. It's managed to slip down between the cushion and the other arm, so Mikasa sits up, reaching for it. She doesn't mean to intrude, but it's hard to miss a flashing screen; she says, “It's your dad,” as she passes the phone to you, and you take it from her as quickly as you can without snatching it out of her hand.

 

     You fumble to answer the call, saying “Yeah—?” as you get to your feet. What follows is a great deal of nodding and _yeah, mm, okay, I'll be there, okay_ , on your end, and you're trying to find your wallet and keys and get your shoes on all at once. Mikasa watches from the sofa, trying to piece together what's happening, and probably manages to make guesses more accurate than you're entirely comfortable with.

 

     “Annie?” she asks, crossing the room.

 

     “I've gotta go—” you say, shoving your arm into a sleeve of your coat that's all balled up at the end. You power your way through the resistance, teeth grit, needing to make your exit before Mikasa can reach out to you and ask what's wrong. It's not about her, it really isn't—you just need to go. You _really_ need to go. The TV's still on and the light switch suddenly seems as though it's a million miles away, but that doesn't matter. “Lock up when you leave, okay? I've got to go.”

 

     And then you really are gone, taking the steps two at a time because you can't afford to wait for the lift to make its way up from the ground floor. You could talk to Mikasa about a multitude of things and it wouldn't be the end of the world, you realise that now, but not about this—never about this.

 

*

 

     Three days of sitting and sleeping in a wooden chair ensue, broken up only by trips to the hospital cafeteria, where the food is almost worse than no food. Your dad isn't conscious much, but you can't leave—who else would take your place? It's always been the two of you, as far back as you can remember. The good news is that the last operation wasn't an end in and of itself, and the machines around him keep on beeping rhythmically. The nurses tell you that all the numbers on all the screens mean something promising, occasionally urging you to go home and get some sleep.

 

     The chair serves you just fine.

 

     When he comes to, he isn't overly lucid. He apologises a lot, but it's never clear what he's apologising for; there's nothing for him to be sorry about, not as far as you can see. Sometimes he'll talk as though it's five years ago, sometimes he'll talk to you as though you're ten again, already twice as good in the dojo as anyone twice your age. He keeps telling you that he's proud of you, and you try to ignore it—as long as he's speaking, it doesn't matter what he says. He'll start making sense sooner or later, and he can only get better from then on.

 

     Mikasa texts you, a few hours after you leave your flat. You think she asks if everything's alright, but it feels like a lifetime ago; you barely remember reading the message. You don't reply, and she doesn't send another message until the second day—almost twenty hours pass before you get around to replying. _Do you need me to bring you anything?_ You tell her _Yeah_ , and give her the name of the hospital, leaving the rest up to her.

 

     She's there within an hour. You go down to the waiting area of the A&E to meet her, eyes almost watering at the smell of piping hot takeaway from that one Chinese place you always end up going to. You sit down and shovel it into your mouth with the crappy plastic fork that came with it, and Mikasa says, “You'd left a shirt at my place—the rest is mine,” as she drops a bag of clothes down next to you. You nod in thanks, mouth full of sweet and sour chicken, eyeing what she's brought. Your toothbrush – the spare you borrowed from Mikasa that one time – is in there too, and you want nothing more than to rest all of your weight against Mikasa as she sits down next to you.

 

     But you're a little busy with dinner.

 

     “Is it your dad?” Mikasa asks, already knowing the answer.

 

     You nod, swallow too much of a spring-roll at once, and say, “Yeah. He was sick when I was a teenager, a few years before uni, but—a couple of months ago, it started coming back.” You tilt your head in the vague direction of his ward, hoping that will be enough of an explanation for her.

 

     Mikasa puts a hand on your knee, waiting for you to finish eating. Once you've wolfed down as much of it as you can, you slouch in your seat, exhaustingly numb with how much you've consumed in one sitting.

 

     “So that's why you moved back,” Mikasa says. “You could've said something.”

 

     Could've, not should've. You shake your head without meaning to. There's no need to talk about this sort of thing with anyone, because words won't make it better—but there's something about talking to Mikasa in particular that leaves you feeling not only vulnerable, but as though you don't deserve to complain about your circumstances. Everyone knows about Mikasa's parents. She's never brought it up herself, but you knew enough vague details to paint the full picture – a break-in and robbery gone awry – long before you actually met her.

 

     You suck in a breath and Mikasa wraps an arm around you. Closing your eyes, you lean against her and realise that no, no that isn't why you didn't say anything. You're only making excuses; you just didn't want to make any of it real by breathing it out loud.

 

     “I've read about him,” Mikasa says softly. “He set a few records, didn't he?”

 

     “Mm.”

 

     Where else would you have learnt everything you know?

 

     “You don't look good,” Mikasa's kind enough to say. “You should go shower.”

 

     Your protests don't get you far. Mikasa assures you that she's more than willing to leave you alone—just as soon as you've sorted yourself out. She says it won't take any more than forty minutes if you head to her place to avoid the traffic, and you make it back in thirty-eight, all because she's camped out in the room with him in your absence. You return in your own shirt that she washed at some point and a pair of her pants that are too long, and she makes good on her word. She wraps her arms around your waist, pulls you close, and tells you to text her as soon as you're hungry tomorrow.

 

*

 

     Mikasa's hair sticks out every which way, and the smile on her face really brings the look together. She's lying on her front, propped up on her elbows, and you idly run your fingers across the small of her back. The cold catches up with both of you in the same moment, and you pull the duvet up over her shoulders, tugging on the edge to draw her closer. She ends up pressed against you, one leg lazily slid between your own.

 

     “Your class was happy to see you back. I think,” Mikasa says, momentarily mulling it over. “I'm not sure who scares them more—you or me.”

 

     Your body aches pleasantly from actually getting to use it, now that things are slowly going back to normal. Mikasa's been covering your classes down at the dojo for the past three weeks and work's been more lenient than you would've expected, and actually getting to sleep in a bed – your bed, Mikasa's bed – still feels like a luxury.

 

     “They've got soft. Softer,” you say, frowning as best you can with her fingers fluttering over your collarbone. “You went too easy on them.”

 

     Mikasa raises her brow and it's all the warning you're afforded. She moves in a flash, duvet crumpling as she throws you onto your front, wrenching your arm up behind your back. “What was that?” she asks, hips rocking against the backs of yours. You grunt, try to tug your arm free, but Mikasa only pushes your wrist up between your shoulder blades, forcing the side of your face into the pillow.

 

     “Ackerman—” you warn her, and she has the audacity to grip tighter. Mikasa splays a hand across the small of your back and leans down, pressing her mouth to your nape. She lets go of your wrist and you slowly move your hand back to your side, freezing up instead of throwing her over when she starts kissing her way to the corner of your jaw. She reaches your ear and you roll onto your side, knocking her down so that the mattress dips as the springs protest.

 

     And to your surprise, you don't take advantage of the situation and get the better of her. You're too comfortable on your side, head resting against the pillow as Mikasa rearranges herself to mirror you, finally settling down. You're not entirely sure who won that one; you're not sure if it matters, either, and you've long since stopped keeping count.

 

     Mikasa doesn't touch you, but she's close. You could bump your knee against hers if you so much as moved an inch, and you bundle your hands beneath your head, beneath the pillow, so that you're not tempted to reach out and take hold of her. Mikasa just keeps looking at you, not challenging you, per se; just waiting for you to say or do something. There's so little pressure behind it that you're instantly uncomfortable, so you blurt out, “I'm not sleeping with anyone else.”

 

     “—obviously,” Mikasa says slowly, brow furrowed. She hadn't considered it before, but now she's wondering why you'd say something like that in the first place. As if reassuring herself, she says, “You were in and out of the hospital for weeks, and then you were helping you dad get settled at home. When would you have found the time?”

 

     You roll your eyes.

 

     “That's not what I'm saying.”

 

     The scepticism doesn't fade from her face. The creases on her brow deepen, but mercifully, Mikasa doesn't ask you what the point you're trying to make is. Her expression softens when the corners of her mouth twitch upwards, and she inches over, pressing her face to your neck. She laughs, and even though she's laughing _at_ you, you can't bring yourself to care. “Neither am I,” she murmurs, and you wonder why your hands are still hidden beneath the pillow. One hand eventually works its way free, and you drop it loosely over Mikasa, fussing with the duvet in the process.

 

     Her breathing becomes rhythmic and shallow against your chest, and for a few blissful minutes, you think she's fallen asleep. You put a hand against her back as you shuffle into a more sensible position for sleep and she tenses, fingertips digging in at your hip.

 

     “—what?”

 

     “Your father's in remission,” she says, leaning back. You sweep her hair out of her face, waiting for her to continue. “You only moved back because he was sick.”

 

     _Oh_. She's—

 

     Heaving a sigh, you roll onto your other side as though all the tiredness in the world's come for you, and ensure that you have your allotted half of the duvet. Mikasa must freeze up behind you, because you don't hear the mattress make any fuss, don't feel the covers shift. You close your eyes, willing all thought out of your mind, and say, “Let me get some sleep, alright? It'd be a pain if I had to look for another job.” 

  

     She's not getting out of it that easily. 


End file.
